by Alys Clare
The world seemed to swoop and whirl around Josse’s slumped body. The blackness before his eyes was shot through with brilliant, painful bursts of light. Opening his mouth, gasping for air, he said, ‘The boy is – I’ve put him in the care of—’
With the last of his strength, he thrust upwards with his left hand. The dagger held firm, and he felt his fingers entangle with de Courtenay’s tunic. Then there was a sudden weight on him, crushing him, sending shock-waves of white-hot pain through his wounded right arm, and he lost consciousness.
But not for long. The pain sliced through his faint, and, with a desperate heave, he thrust de Courtenay’s body off him and breathed in deeply. Lying flat on his back, he drew several vast breaths. His throat burned like hellfire, and he could feel trickles of blood from various points on his face and neck.
But I’m alive, he thought wonderingly. I’m alive.
After a few moments, he managed to prop himself up. Edging carefully towards de Courtenay, he looked at the body.
The man was dead. No doubt about that.
He lay on his side, one arm flung behind him. His sword was half-underneath him, his dagger lay where it had fallen from his dead hand.
There was a large pool of blood beneath his chest. As Josse watched, one or two sluggish drips formed on the torn tunic and fell with a soft plop into the spreading puddle beneath him.
Sticking out from between de Courtenay’s ribs was the handle of a dagger.
I got him! Josse thought wonderingly. By some sort of miracle, I found – was given – the accuracy and the strength to stab him to the heart.
For the cut had to have pierced the heart; no other part of the body suffering a wound could, in Josse’s experience, produce so much blood so quickly.
He looked at the straight black handle of the blade.
Something was wrong with it …
He shook his head, trying to fight the befuddlement of his wits, trying to think …
Aye. That was it.
Josse’s dagger had a narrow hilt, and it was not black.
And, besides, he still held his own dagger in his left hand.
Turning, raising his head with an effort as though he were lifting a tree, he saw her.
She stood a few paces back, as if horror kept her at bay.
He said, his voice so hoarse that the words were barely audible, ‘Your knife.’
And she said, ‘Yes.’
There was silence. Then he said, ‘I once said to you that I wouldn’t back your small blade against de Courtenay.’ He looked down at the body, then back at Joanna. ‘How wrong I was.’
Her face deathly pale, she whispered, ‘I thought you were going to tell him where Ninian was.’
Josse managed a smile. ‘No. I wasn’t going to do that. I was trying to get him off his guard while I prepared to slide my own blade into him.’
She came towards him out of the shadows, kneeling down, taking his face in her hands, gentle fingers touching the marks on his face. ‘He was about to mutilate you,’ she whispered. ‘Would not any man weaken, under such torture? And you were already so wounded.’ Her voice broke on a sob.
He raised his hand and clasped her wrist. ‘You command loyalty in your friends, Joanna,’ he said. ‘Which is no surprise. Mag Hobson didn’t talk. And neither would I have done.’
She slumped against him, and he could feel her trembling. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘So, so sorry.’
‘That you killed him? he asked gently. ‘Lady, there is no need, he was a man whose way of life must constantly have put him at risk. And—’
She had raised her head and was looking at him. ‘No, Josse. All things considered, I don’t believe I am sorry I killed him,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about you.’ She was trying to pull his sleeve away from the cut in his right arm, hands gentle but insistent, causing waves of agony to shoot right through him.
‘Joanna, I—’ he began.
Then he passed out.
Chapter Eighteen
He awoke to find himself lying quite comfortably on the floor in front of the fire. Joanna was sitting in his chair, looking quite composed, hands folded in her lap.
He turned his head a little, enough to look at the place where de Courtenay had fallen.
The body was no longer there.
Relaxing – had he dreamt the whole thing, after all? – he closed his eyes and did a quick tally of his wounds.
The great slice into his right arm felt hot, but numb. Whatever Joanna had done had dulled the pain and he thanked God for her skills. If you’ve got to earn yourself a deep wound, he thought vaguely, then what better time than when you have an apprentice wise woman under your roof?
The main pain came from his neck, where, it seemed, one of de Courtenay’s dagger pricks had gone in more deeply. The wound was throbbing in time to his heartbeat. Throb … throb … throb …
From somewhere nearby, a voice said softly, ‘Don’t fight to stay awake, Josse. All is well. Sleep now, and you will heal the quicker.’
It made sense.
Relaxing, giving in to the drowsiness, he let himself drift off.
* * *
When next he awoke, it was almost totally dark. The hall was lit by a solitary candle, and someone – Joanna – had covered him warmly with a fur rug.
He was, he realised, terribly thirsty.
Opening parched lips – he experienced a dry, cracking sensation as he did so – he whispered, ‘I need to drink.’
Instantly she was there, swooping down beside him, one hand behind his head to support him while, with the other hand, she held a cup to his lips.
‘There – gently now! Not too much!’
The cool, refreshing water slid into his mouth. He swallowed, and she let him take another sip. Then she took the cup away.
‘More!’ he protested.
She was wiping his mouth with a cold, damp cloth, and he licked his lips to take in the moisture. ‘No more for now,’ she said. ‘Soon, another couple of sips.’
He relaxed against the cushions under his head. ‘Thank you.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Sleepy.’ Then: ‘It’s dark. Is it night?’
‘Yes. Are you in pain?’
He did his inventory again. ‘My neck hurts.’
‘Where?’
He raised a hand that felt as heavy as a boulder and indicated.
‘I see.’
He sensed her move away. Quite soon she came back, and he felt something cool press against the throbbing wound in his neck. It stung at first, but then that stopped. And so did the pain.
‘You,’ he murmured, ‘are a goddess.’
‘No!’ she cried instantly. Then she muttered, ‘Ah, but he’s joking, not blaspheming.’ She said, in her normal tone, ‘It’s just something Mag taught me.’
‘An apprentice wise woman,’ he murmured. ‘Just what I thought.’
‘What’s that?’ She sounded wary.
‘Nothing, my love.’ He shifted his weight slightly, making himself more comfortable. ‘Just a thought I had earlier, when I woke up and realised my arm didn’t hurt.’
‘It is a deep wound,’ she said sombrely. ‘I’ve stitched it together, but we must watch carefully for any signs of infection.’
‘Stitched it together.’ He felt slightly sick again.
‘Yes. Don’t worry, Josse, Mag taught me well.’
‘Aye, I’m sure.’ He fought with the sickness which seemed determined to rise. To take his mind off thoughts of her handiwork, he asked, ‘Where is de Courtenay? He was lying just there, and now he isn’t.’
‘Don’t worry about that, either. He’s taken care of,’ she said soothingly.
‘You didn’t manage that, all on your own!’ He’d noticed she was strong, but not that strong, surely! De Courtenay had been no weakling, no lightweight.
‘No, no,’ she was saying. ‘Josse, I’m not the only one with loyal friends. Your Will, now, would, I warrant, do anything for
you.’
‘Will?’
‘Yes. Will. He and I took de Courtenay outside – we wanted to act now, under cover of night – and Will is burying the body in a ditch.’
‘Burying him?’
‘He is dead. You realise that?’
‘Of course! But—’
But what? But we must send for the Sheriff, report the murder, describe the circumstances, hope that, by so doing, we convince them that it was sell-defence?
And supposing they don’t agree? What then?
Then I, Josse thought – for no part of him could even contemplate letting Joanna take the blame – then I would go on trial for murder. And I might very well hang.
But to bury de Courtenay in a New Winnowlands ditch! Not even to bury the corpse himself, but to have Will do it!
Could his conscience ever rest easy again, bearing the stain of all that?
His conscience was, he quickly realised, going to have to do its best. The alternative was unthinkable.
He said, ‘Joanna, would you fetch Will?’
‘Of course.’
She came back quite quickly – presumably Will’s ditch was not far distant – and Will, looming behind her, said, ‘Sir? I hope I’ve done as you’d wish, but I’ve put him right at the bottom of that long trench I was digging down at the end of the orchard, where we was worrying about the tendency for that corner to flood. He’s down deep, sir, won’t nobody find him, leastways, not if they don’t know where to look.’
Will’s earnest face touched Josse deeply. He reached out his hand, and, after a small hesitation. Will put out his too and grasped it.
‘Thank you, Will,’ Josse said. ‘It’s more than I have any right to ask of you, but thank you.’
‘You didn’t ask.’ Will grinned briefly. ‘You wasn’t in no state to ask aught of anybody, sir.’ He glanced at Joanna. ‘And I couldn’t stand by and see the young lady here struggling all by herself with such a task, now, could I?’
‘But, Will, if there should ever be investigations about him, if anybody should ask you directly what you knew…’
Will waited courteously to see if he were going to finish. When he didn’t, Will said, ‘If anybody should ask about a body, I should say, body? What body?’
‘De Courtenay’s body!’ Josse said, beginning to feel fuddled again.
And Will, adopting a convincing expression of bovine dullness, said, ‘Eh? Who? Never heard of him.’
‘I won’t forget this, Will,’ Josse said.
Will was getting up. ‘I know that, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a trench to finish backfilling.’
* * *
Alone again with Joanna, Josse said, ‘Is it safe? Do you think he’ll ever be found?’
She shrugged. ‘Who can say? But I doubt it. For one thing, Will has, as he said, buried him deep. For another, what is there to connect Denys de Courtenay with you or New Winnow-lands? I think we can safely discount the peasant who came here to summon you into Denys’s trap – it’s not likely that a wretch like him would speak out against a knight. What would be the point? Anything he said would be instantly dismissed.’
‘He wasn’t the only one,’ Josse murmured. ‘De Courtenay had another two outside with him.’
Joanna shrugged. ‘The same applies to them. Apart from them, who else but you and I know that Denys followed you here?’
‘Brother Saul,’ Josse murmured, ‘and the Abbess Helewise.’
‘Both of whom are your true and loving friends,’ she countered quickly, ‘and who, if you tell them the truth, will understand that this death is not on your conscience. That you fought bravely, but were overcome. That, holding out against threatened torture, your courage cannot be faulted.’ She paused, took a deep breath and said, ‘That another hand killed Denys de Courtenay.’
He said softly, ‘Never admit that again. Not to me, not to anybody.’
She stared deep into his eyes. And, after a pause, whispered, ‘No. I won’t.’
‘I will tell the Abbess,’ he announced presently, ‘that de Courtenay was stricken as we fought. That it was by pure mischance that he fell on to my blade—’
‘– which just happened to pierce his heart,’ she finished. There was a wry humour in her voice. ‘Josse, you won’t do that. Whatever explanation you choose to give, I should, if I might suggest, keep it brief.’
‘But she’ll want to know,’ he protested. ‘I’ll have to tell her something!’
Joanna put her hand on his brow, smoothing out the frown. ‘Dear Josse,’ she murmured. ‘You can’t bear to think of lying to those you love, can you?’
‘I—’ He stopped. She was right, it was something he could not contemplate. Helewise’s face sprang into his mind, frowning as she worried over some matter he had taken to lay at her feet, willingly putting all her intelligence and her experience at his disposal. Which, considering everything else constantly clamouring for her attention, was a gift indeed.
‘She’s—’ he began. ‘She’s a woman who—’
But he was attempting to explain Helewise to Joanna. And that, he realised, was something he would find difficult, even were he not suffering from a grievous wound.
‘It’s all right,’ Joanna said soothingly. ‘I understand.’
And, light-headed as he was, possibly seeing with a greater clarity than when he was fully himself, he knew that she did.
* * *
It was only when he woke the next morning that he remembered Brother Saul was also under his roof. Also under the care of Joanna.
He said, as soon as she appeared with a drink and a light breakfast of a bowl of thin gruel, ‘How is Brother Saul?’
She smiled. ‘Brother Saul is quite well. So well, in fact, that he left us soon after first light and is even now riding back to Hawkenlye to put his Abbess’s mind at rest.’
‘What’s he going to tell her?’ Josse struggled to sit up.
‘Don’t worry!’ She put out a restraining hand. ‘He will tell her the truth, but the truth as he has been told it.’
‘Which is?’
Her eyes widened into an expression of innocence. ‘Don’t you remember? Oh, dear, it must be because you’re still not yourself! Listen well, then, and I will tell you. There was a fight, between you and Denys, and you drew your dagger to defend yourself, and he fell against it when he tripped.’
He held her eyes. ‘That’s the truth?’
‘It is,’ she said firmly.
‘Can you live with that?’ he whispered.
And, raising her chin, she replied, ‘I can.’
* * *
It was two days before she would let him ride, and, even then, she told him crossly that he was daft even to think of it, and he ought to be abed still, building up his strength. By the time he was a third of the way to Hawkenlye, he was beginning to agree with her.
He had resisted her attempts to persuade him to let her go too. If he were going to have to lie to Abbess Helewise – which he knew he was – then it would be marginally better not to have a witness. Particularly if that witness were Joanna.
He made himself ignore his weakness. He urged Horace on, infected now with a sense of urgency. Even though he knew Brother Saul would have told the Abbess what had happened – the version he had been given, that was – still Josse longed to reassure her himself.
Clinging on as Horace increased his pace to a sprightly canter, Josse gritted his teeth and tried to work out what he was going to say.
* * *
Helewise had spent an awful few days.
Brother Saul’s return mid-way through the morning two days ago had given her the blessed relief of knowing he was alive and well, and apparently none the worse for his ordeal.
‘But you were attacked!’ she had protested after listening to his tale. ‘Saul, you must let Sister Euphemia attend to your hurts!’
‘What hurts I received were mild,’ he reassured her. ‘And Joanna looked after me – she has a gentle hand and a soun
d knowledge of remedies.’
Helewise had observed, with interest, the distinct softening of Brother Saul’s features as he spoke of Joanna.
‘Well, it’s wonderful to have you safely home, Saul,’ she said, ‘an answer to my prayers.’
His face clouded. ‘Abbess, you may not be so glad when I relay to you the news I bring.’
He had then told her about Denys de Courtenay’s attack on Josse, the fight between the two men and de Courtenay’s death.
‘And they buried him out there at New Winnowlands?’ she repeated, astounded. ‘But why—’
She made herself stop. Brother Saul was not the person to whom she should address that question.
Thanking him, telling him again how grateful she was for his safe return, she dismissed him. And began her long wait for the arrival of Josse.
* * *
He came into her room two days later. She could see at once that he had been hurt; his face was deathly pale and he held his right wrist supported in his left hand. There were small cuts on his throat, neck and left cheek.
‘Sir Josse!’ she cried. ‘Oh, but you’ve been wounded!’
‘I’m all right,’ he said instantly and unconvincingly; he was, she could see, swaying on his feet. She rushed round from behind her table, took him by the left arm and guided him to her chair, carefully sitting him down and hovering anxiously over him.
‘Do you feel faint?’
‘I’m all right!’
She tutted under her breath, then went outside into the cloister and summoned a passing nun to go and find Sister Euphemia. ‘Ask her, please, Sister Beata, to prepare a heartening draught, and bring it back with you for our visitor. Quick as you can, please!’
Then she returned to Josse.
‘I’m honoured,’ he said, looking up at her with a faint smile, ‘to be allowed to sit in your seat.’
‘I shall not make a habit of permitting it,’ she replied, trying to match his attempt at levity. ‘But today you look as if you need it.’
‘Aye, I do.’ He moved his arm a little, wincing as he did so.
‘A relic of your fight with Denys de Courtenay?’ she asked softly.
‘Aye.’
‘And he tripped and fell on to your dagger, and suffered a fatal wound, Brother Saul tells me.’
